More Be Done

The nickel clowns stared down from the arcade windows, beckoning. For several miles and several rolls of film my double socked feet tramped the littered streets, looking for patterns of color and something to eat. The Pearl district was a fragile white orb, kept polished hourly, tryin' to keep it shining while the rest just rested, unashamed of the grit and grime, not wanting to waste time with appearance. The phone kept on ringing and I kept on singing to all my friends across the country, all those faces I left in cities too far for buses at the moment, wishing I could finally say all the stuff graffiti'd to the top of my skull, sleeves tugged to two coasts, collar pulled straight north and all the while socks sagging toward the south. Staring into a fire, hoping this energy don't consume the way a fire must, watching the grass catch a bit and smolder to ash, dulling, dulling the senses till the whiskey wakes the stomach up, sends us to the Florida Room for fried avacado and a bracelet a bit too small. I told her I was joking. I told her, "I just feel sort of nauseated." And all I can hear is the rattle of the train rolling stories above my head, the light coming down a tunnel and a howl. Neil Diamond sings, she sings hallelujah. Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, shoes tied and staring at a crayon map of Yellowstone, looking for a place to be.

- Portland